


What Gifts We Are Given

by Morpheus626



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Stillbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morpheus626/pseuds/Morpheus626
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story came about as a prompt from tumblr, which can be found here: http://leeeeeeeeeegooooooooolaaaaaaaaas.tumblr.com/post/73565105349/i-kinda-really-want-a-story-about-a-young-human<br/>I fell in love with the prompt and was given permission to tackle it, so here it is. Hopefully I have done it justice and written well for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always; Tolkien's characters do not belong to me, I am only borrowing them for a bit. My original characters are my creations, though the credit for their names goes to www.fantasynamegenerators.com and www.realelvish.net. 
> 
> If you would like to comment on this work somewhere other than here or just yell at me for making everyone in Middle-earth sad you can contact me at my tumblr: www.itsalwaysprettiestafterthefall.tumblr.com
> 
> I would also recommend you check out (and follow if you wish) the wonderful blog who let me take a stab at their prompt: www.leeeeeeeeeegooooooooolaaaaaaaaas.tumblr.com

Their child had been beautiful. 

His chest had never risen with breath, nor had his eyes opened to see the fresh light of the morning. 

But he had been beautiful. 

Elsa hadn’t wanted to let him go, their beautiful but unnamed baby boy, with her dark hair and her light eyes. She had yelled, then begged, and then only wept as she clutched the small body close to her chest. But Triston had helped her to see reason, even when he wanted to be blind to it himself. The midwife helped them clean their son and the bed, and went to find someone to perform a service for the stillborn child. 

They talked, while they waited for her return. Their son lay between them, dressed in the gown they had bought for the day he would be shown to the rest of the neighborhood—always a momentous occasion in Laketown, for no matter how dank and depressing the town seemed children were always a source of light and joy. After a few hours, their voices started to strain, with exhaustion and pain and grief. They fell silent, and took solace in being together—a family proper, with mum and dad and baby, if only for a few hours. 

The midwife showed up then, with Bard behind her. In his arms, he held a small bundle. 

Elsa was livid upon the sight. “We asked for someone to help bury our son, not for a replacement child.” Her voice was ice and fire. 

Bard settled back on his heels. “I do not intend to offer replacement. I found this child near the shore of the lake, and was going to take him home until—well, until I have thought of how I can help him. But I am here now to help you.” 

He passed the child to the midwife, who gazed down gently at the babe’s face. “Bard, are you aware of this child’s race?” 

Bard looked back to the babe in her arms. “What of it?” 

The midwife smiled. “You didn’t see the ears then? We’ll need to be sending word to the elves in Mirkwood. This must be one of theirs, though I can only imagine how such a tiny thing would end up so far from home.” She smiled down at the baby, who gurgled happily in response. 

“I will take care of that later. We have other matters to attend to.” Bard said, in a near-whisper, as Elsa tried to stand and pick up their son. Triston caught her as she fell, and helped her back to the bed. He looked helplessly to Bard. There was no way Elsa would let them bury their son without her—but if she could not make it out of bed, then she certainly could not make it into a boat to reach proper land. 

Bard stood in thought for a few moments. Just as he was about to speak, there was a knock at the door. Triston answered it, though he was hardly in the mood for any visitors, but was surprised to find one of Bard’s daughters standing there. 

“There are elves Da. Not the usual parties either—“her voice moved to an awe-struck whisper. “Their king is here as well.” 

Bard moved quickly out the door then, promising to be back as soon as he could. Triston felt a bit bad for the man; he didn’t hold any position of official ambassador or delegate to the Mirkwood kingdom, but more often than not he was pulled to help with anything concerning the elves. The man had a talent for it though, that much couldn’t be denied. 

The midwife was a bit put-out by Bard’s sudden absence. “Well. I wouldn’t call that professional, but—well. Gives you two a moment or two to gain your strength back if nothing else.” 

Elsa was still quietly furious. Triston thought that even the dragon in the mountain could not match the anger and heat radiating from her now. He could not blame her though—he would be so angry himself, if he were not so exhausted. The anger would come later, he was sure of that. It was their right as parents to be angry at the loss of their child. For now, he would let her soak in her anger and grief, and he would keep the world right-side up until she had recovered. 

“Elsa, perhaps if I carry you, then it will be easier to get to the boat? I know that is not ideal but—“ 

She stared coldly at him. “I want to walk him to his grave. I should be strong for him, and I will do no less unless there is no other option.” Triston had nothing to say to that. 

Meanwhile, the elven child had started to weep. He was like any other babe in that respect, Triston was surprised and happy to see. Apparently the ethereal grace didn’t kick in right away as one might have expected. The midwife seemed to be failing at her role as the child cried, and looked blankly ahead, near-exhausted herself. Elsa was less than pleased with that. 

“Oh for goodness’ sake! Cannot you not attempt to console the child?” 

The midwife seemed not to have heard Elsa. At that, his wife sighed in frustration. 

“Give him to me.” 

The phrase hung in the air. Neither Triston nor the midwife knew what to do; she looked to Triston and shrugged her shoulders, before walking over to place the child in Elsa’s arms. 

“That’s enough of that now. Not very becoming of an elf, to be weeping like that.” Elsa seemed less irritated now, and was gazing down at the babe with a strange look on her face, almost admiring the child’s dusting of blonde hair and bright grey eyes. The child hiccupped a bit and let out another sob, but seemed to calm down as well. Silence drifted over their home again. 

The midwife took that opportunity to go look for Bard. “He’s not utterly daft. Probably trying to talk the king over here to see the child. I’d bet anything they’re arguing now, and both being stubborn as anything.” She left quickly, and Triston was glad for it. He would be fine if no one came to their home again that day—he was tired, as was Elsa. And they could look after the babe, if they had to. 

It would seem that was not to be, however, as the Elf-King Thranduil strode through their door behind Bard. Triston had never seen him before, but had heard many tales of the king. He was rather accurate to those stories—tall and imposing, but quietly so. Yet there was sadness evident in his eyes when he saw the child in Elsa’s arms. 

“One of our traveling parties was attacked—orcs, of all things, who would not normally dare to travel so near to our borders. We thought we had lost all of the families that made up the party—I am glad to see this is a falsehood.” Thranduil stepped forward, his feet light and silent on the wooden floorboards, and reached out to take the child. 

Elsa looked to Triston, tears welling in her eyes. It was too much for her. Whether she would have intended it or not, she had fallen in love with the child in that short period of time. A love born of grief and loss, but love nonetheless. But Elsa handed the child over, and Triston screeched at himself for not protesting. But who could protest against a king? 

Thranduil was incredibly gentle with the child, despite the metal armor he wore. A warrior then, Triston thought, but a father as well. It was said that that and more was asked of kings, and this seemed testament to that. Triston remembered then the prince of Mirkwood, and realized he could not picture the Elf-King wandering about the palace with a young elfling at his feet. The sight was too strange to associate with such strong and near-supernatural creatures. 

A beat or two passed as Thranduil studied the child. “Bard tells me you have just lost your son.” 

Elsa let a sob burst from her chest. Triston reached for her hand, warm still from the stress of childbirth and the heat of the fireplace, and held it tightly. He had preferred when the elf had been silent—no one had any right to speak of their son so soon after his…life? Death? Triston could and did not want to put a name to it all yet. 

“We are careful, in the task of fostering. Children are not left with just anyone—my people do not age as yours do, as I’m sure you’re well aware.” Thranduil rocked gently on his feet as the baby started to fuss. He let the baby fuss for a moment more, then looked to Elsa, who was sobbing silently. She met his eyes, and there was a moment of understanding between them. She pulled her hand from Triston, and Thranduil gently placed the child back into her arms. After another soft wail the babe began to quiet. 

“I suppose if Elrond can foster a mortal, then there can only be so much harm in mortals fostering one of ours.” Thranduil said with quiet determination. Triston looked to him in confusion, but the Elf-King’s face was unreadable. 

Bard’s eyes had gone wide. He had kept his silence through-out the exchange, but now spoke in a rush out of surprise. “We would not keep one of your own from you, King Thranduil. This is rather—“ 

“Uncustomary, strange? I have seen stranger things in my time. And while I do not deny that we would benefit from taking the child; I do not believe the child would benefit from that. He seems happiest now in her arms, and I would not rip a child from the arms of a loving mother. If anything, this may help strengthen the relationship between our peoples. Perhaps yours will not feel the need to gape at us if there is one of ours regularly present.” Thranduil’s eyes drifted to the corpse of their son as he spoke. 

“But it will not do to see him as a replacement for what you have lost. He is and will be wholly different from what you know of your children—and I expect he will be taught of his heritage, even if I must visit and do so myself. I trust you will mark and adjust your care with these differences. “The elf’s voice grew rather tired and sympathetic then. “Bard has mentioned that you do not have your strength yet to walk my lady. If you would accept it, I would offer my help in this matter.” 

Triston glared at the elf out-right. “And I cannot help my wife?” 

Thranduil’s eyes softened. “I mean no insult. But I would imagine you are tired as well, and someone will need to hold your son while we travel.” 

Triston lowered his eyes, and picked up his son’s cold body from the bed. He nodded, unable to meet Thranduil’s eyes again. Bard left to retrieve the midwife (who had been making herself comfortable in their kitchen, and had gone so far as to be sure that the shelves were suitably stocked for a new baby.) She took the elf babe from Elsa’s arms, and agreed to watch over the house and child until they returned. 

Elsa struggled desperately to stand on her own, but fell to the floor. She was painfully stubborn however, and pushed away everyone’s hands as they reached to help her. She made it back onto her feet, but looked ready to collapse at any moment. At Bard and Trystan’s motions Thranduil reached forward and swept Elsa into his arms. 

“This is unnecessary and all of you know it.” She mumbled in irritation. Thranduil merely smiled at that. 

“My wife was much like you. The world could have come crashing in on itself, and she would exert all her strength to hold it together on her own. Take the opportunity to rest now; you’ll be run ragged by that child far sooner than you expect.” His tone was almost conversational and light, and Triston was of the thought that he had seen nearly everything now—the Elf-King carrying his exhausted wife in her housecoat to their boat outside, making gentle and careful conversation as they went. At least Elsa had given in to being carried—for now, at least. 

The ride to the shore was painfully quiet. Elsa had sat herself beside Triston so that she could be near their son, and the two spent the time observing their child, trying to memorize his face. Bard and Thranduil had the good sense to stay silent and look away, to allow the young parents their grief without audience. 

The burial seemed too fast, but then, all burials for Laketown were. As things had gotten worse, so had business been better for the coffin-maker in town. He kept his storage area well-stocked with all size of coffins, and it had been a simple matter for Bard to purchase one as he had led Thranduil to the couple’s home. It had sat a silent and yet deafening burden near the shovel by their feet as Bard had rowed, and now it held their son. 

It seemed too easy, almost. Triston felt tears slide down his face as he considered it. Just like that, their son was gone and done. Elsa wept beside him, leaning heavily on his shoulder, just barely able to stay on her feet. Bard had dug the hole, and placed the coffin inside with gentle reverence. He could not know their pain in its exactness—but he knew of loss, and he had helped to bury his wife. The pain never did leave it seemed, but instead became a shade of blue in the sky, and a whisper in the waves of the lake. One learned to live with it, as would they. 

Thranduil stayed near the boat, and watched the burial in silence. He had his own losses that came to mind now, though not one of a child. He thought of Legolas, and worry struck his heart as he realized his son would have led their party back to the palace. Legolas was capable of course, but a parent couldn’t help but worry. But his worries mattered not now. 

Bard let the couple sit and weep for as long as he could. It would be too cruel to pull them home right away, but nor could he allow them to wallow at the graveside. Finally he placed a hand on Triston’s shoulder, and helped the two back to the boat. 

Elsa felt empty as Bard rowed them back to town. Their son was gone, but yet a child still waited at home for her. She was proud to be entrusted with the care of the child, but her heart longed for her son more. It was too difficult to fully admit to yet, but the Elf-King was right—this child was not a replacement for their son, and could not be. Their situation was a strange one, but she would make the best of it all. She would care for the child of some anonymous elves (and she thought then that someday the child would need to know of his original parent’s death) and she would help the child to thrive. She could honor her son’s memory in that way at least, to be as a good a mother as she had wanted to be for him. 

Thranduil left as soon as they reached Laketown, clearly worried about something that he did not care to share. Bard took it as a good sign; the elf clearly trusted the young parents to do their job well. Though he did hope someone from Mirkwood would check in on occasion, if only as a formality. 

Bard declined Triston’s offer to stay for a drink, but offered up his assistance if they needed it. He had his own children to get back to, and he knew it was not his place to hover over the couple. The midwife did not share that opinion, but he managed to pull her from the kitchen and out to the walkway with him. Most important was that Bard did not think they needed to be watched over; Laketown was home to strong and brave folk, and they would survive, and would be good parents to the elfling left to them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See first chapter for notes and summary.

The first night was hell. Elsa would admit that easily. They were both exhausted and hurting, and yet there was a child to be looked after. She wondered later if the child had been able to sense their pain, and had purposefully been well-behaved for the night. But it seemed that the babe was simply a well-behaved creature for the most part, though there were countless mischievous incidents as the weeks and months went on. It was strange as well, to know that the child would age so quickly, and that they would need to adjust their discipline and parenting techniques to that—she hadn’t been sure at first how they might, but the occasional letters from Mirkwood were a great help to her. Nurses and servants and soldiers wrote to her, along with the King himself, all of them giving gentle suggestions as to how to adjust to it all. She was quite grateful for that, but felt that they were doing an okay job of it all. 

The child was ten now, but acted so much older than the other children. Mentally, he seemed to be nearer to his parents than his friends in town, but it did not work against him. His friends were kind to him, though they did not always understand his actions or feelings. It mattered not to him—he was aware of his nature, thanks to “Uncle Thranduil.” 

Elsa would never stop finding that funny either. The elf had seemed a bit uncomfortable with the title at first, but as his visits and letters continued he seemed to get used to it. Legolas had come by as well, now and again, often with a soldier named Tauriel. The two gave her son (and he was hers, despite what others in the town said) what Thranduil did not: tales of battle and valiant warriors. The two seemed to become children again themselves as they talked of their defense of Mirkwood against the spiders, and it was strangely comforting to Elsa. However, this talk had encouraged far too much “questing” for her taste—even if the quests were as simple as racing another child to the market. 

“Andon! Dinner!” Elsa called out from their doorway, pleased and confident in her knowledge that her son would be home in moments. It was a perk of having an elf for a son; his hearing was beyond compare, and so she rarely needed to call more than once for him to return home, unlike the mothers of his friends. 

Triston wandered in after Andon, who was more blur than child as he raced to his mother. She handed him a plate of food as he babbled; he’d gotten another letter from Mirkwood, from one of their linguists who was teaching him the language of the elves. Triston smiled at his son’s eagerness as he retrieved his plate from Elsa. They watched, just for a silent moment, as their son continued to race through the events of his day, and found contentment. This was good, their lives. Things had not started as anyone would have wanted them—but they were given a gift, a second chance and an opportunity to create a new bond between Mirkwood and Laketown. There weren’t many who could say that of their lives. They still missed their first son terribly, and there were days where Elsa would row to the shore, and find the spot that marked his grave. She would leave flowers, and would tell him how much he was loved and missed, even by the brother who had not known him. 

Andon often asked of his brother, and occasionally worried Elsa in doing so. He would ponder how his brother might have done this or that differently, and it was at these times the child seemed to be bothered by his heritage—and his immortality. 

Thranduil had encouraged them to speak with Andon about it. “He does not need to worry over the issue but he should be aware of it.” 

“And just how do we tell him of such things—he’s still a child…” Elsa had protested. But Thranduil had held firm. 

“He’ll need and want to talk—there will be questions you cannot answer, but my people can. Death is not an easy subject for any elf. Be strong for his sake, and trust that he will be fine.” 

Well, they had let him talk, and made sure any questions they couldn’t answer went to the elves—so he was never without someone to ask, at the very least. Neither of them liked thinking of it though—to know that their son would bury them, and the friends he played with now. The world was his to wander, but Elsa hoped he would not wander alone for long. Whether he met another elf to spend his days with, or went to Mirkwood, or sailed across the sea as so many elves did; it mattered not to her. Just so long as he was not alone.

* * *

The years ran away it seemed. Their son was old before his years to most of the citizens of Laketown, but they had no complaints of it. He had grown quickly, yes, but it was as it was supposed to be. He was an elf, after all, as Elsa had reminded so many in town (except for Bard and his children, all of whom were only ever kind and respectful to their family—Sunday dinners had even become an event between the two households.) And he was not all that elf-like in behavior—he did give off an ethereal air at times, but he was also brash and bold. He drank at the tavern with the other lads, and came home yelling and whooping and waking Elsa and Triston from their beds. He was decidedly less clean than other elves as well—Thranduil had even commented that dirt seemed to stick to Andon, which he claimed was quite unusual for an elf. Elsa had silenced the Elf-King’s worries easily—“He is not only an elf. He is a mixture of our two worlds, and he is perfect as he is.” 

And as Andon grew older, with his face ever youthful; so did his mother and father age, with wrinkles and body aches and illness accumulated. They’d lived a long time compared to most in Laketown; Elsa had recently turned seventy, and Triston was near seventy-four. They had seen much in their lives. The rise and fall of different evils, the growing of their city and of the kingdoms near-by. They had been named elf-friends (an honor that only Bard and his family could boast previously.) And there had been so much more—but their eyes and minds grew tired, and they both found that there were days where they could not recall things, such as the names of their friends, and the year and day, let alone their many days in the world. 

Andon remained, however, and cared for them. Elsa had told him more than once that he could leave to explore the world at any time—he had come of age not long ago, and they had encouraged him to go see beyond the borders of Laketown. 

“Not too far, mind you. We’d miss you too much then, so you’ll just need to wait till we’re gone to run any further.” Elsa had joked one day. And it had been just that, a joke, but the hurt in Andon’s eyes reminded her just how careful she still needed to be around the topic of her and Triston’s mortality. 

They could not hide from it forever though, and a few months after that Triston passed away. It had been nothing painful or unusual—in his sleep, just how he had said he wanted to go. But Andon was utterly broken by it. 

Elsa had talked him into helping to bear the coffin, but she nearly regretted it as she watched him. His eyes were red, and tears streamed down his face; he was one of many who spoke at the burial, and she could see her son’s hands shaking as he did. He managed at some point to slip away without her noticing, but thankfully Thranduil and Legolas had seen. By the time she was home from the burial Andon had been returned to her by the king and prince, who were at ease with him and seemed to shed a bit of the pressure of their titles around her family. She would never say it, but she considered them as much family as she did Bard and his children; admitting such a thing out loud seemed silly to her—if they didn’t know by now then they wouldn’t have gone looking for her son at the burial, and they wouldn’t have helped care for him as he had grown. 

“Your mother is here. We must go—but if you have need of us you may send for us.” Thranduil and Legolas both hugged her gently as they left—an expected comfort from Legolas, but a rare act for Thranduil. Elsa hugged him all the more tightly for it. They murmured their apologies for her loss, and then they were gone. For a moment, she almost wished them back. After all, she was old and tired, and she found that she simply could not provide the explanations and comfort Andon was looking for. She wondered if he would ever find it—it seemed everyone was cursed with some weight on their back, and perhaps this was his weight to bear. The thought made her want to weep. 

But she did not. Instead, she sat at the kitchen table with him, struggling to pull her chair back until Andon reached a hand over to help. She fell into the chair and sighed. 

“I wish I could comfort you more. But I am hurting too; your father was so much of my life, just as you have been. And my life was better for it—this pain is just what comes with such joy. It is unavoidable. Soon I will die as well, and so will your friends. I know you know this, though whether you want to accept it or not is another matter entirely.” Elsa reached over and took Andon’s hands in hers. 

“But you have to—for your own sake. It will hurt. It will always hurt. I will miss your father until the day I die, just as I miss my friends who have died, just as I miss your brother—“Her breath hitched in her throat, as she thought back to one of the few memories that had stayed strong over the years—the death of her first son, and the arrival the son she sat with now, and how utterly their lives had changed, how there had been such joy in the face of death and loss. 

Andon’s red-rimmed eyes met hers. “So I will live forever then, always hurting? Is that what I am expected to do?” He was angry and afraid, and she knew just how he felt. She had never forgotten that he was an elf—the ears were a daily reminder of that—but he was so painfully human at times like this. 

“No, and yes. You will live forever, barring any injury—and don’t you dare go dying on me young man, I will not have that! You will continue on, and the hurt will fade and dim. It will not go away entirely, and there will be things that remind you of those hurts, and then they will seem as fresh wounds once again. But you will continue nonetheless. You will find friends, mortal and immortal, and you will sing and travel and probably drink too much for my liking, but you will keep on. You will live, and there will be joy.” Elsa found herself crying as well, and Andon got up from his seat to stand and hug her. She smiled through her tears—this was her son. The son she knew so well—not incapacitated by grief, but alive and vibrant and causing a racket for everything else in the world, yet also capable of such comfort and love. This was how he needed to be—happy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See first chapter for summary and notes.

Elsa lasted three months after Triston. She had made sure to live those months as fully as she could—she had known herself that she did not want to live long without her husband. But she needed to care for Andon first, to see that he would make it without her. 

So they traveled a bit. To Mirkwood and its edges, but no further (Andon feared she would die on a longer trip, and Elsa had to admit his fear was not ill-placed.) Thranduil had offered up their palace as a home for Andon after Elsa’s death—should he wish to stay in Mirkwood. It was unspoken between Thranduil and Elsa that they knew that wasn’t likely. Andon would inevitably want to travel, but it was still good for him to have another place to call home, when he needed a home to return to. 

The time at home they spent most often by talking. Elsa found she remembered less and less as the days went on, and so Andon would tell her the stories that she had originally told him when he was young. It seemed the only way she could remember some things. He would read to her in the evenings, and utterly spoiled her, in her opinion. 

“You don’t need to worry yourself making me tea every night—I could manage on my own.” She would say to him, and he would smile at her protest. 

“Yes, I know you could. But I am here help, so why not take advantage of that?” Then he would place a soft kiss to her forehead, and would make sure she was warm enough for the night. Elsa wondered if there were many other mothers in the world who could say they were so spoiled by their sons. 

They visited the gravesites as much as they could. Her hands shook now, and she could not pick flowers to place on the graves. So Andon would pick them for her, and would help her to drop them near the grave markers. Elsa was eternally grateful for her son’s help in that, and that he never made her feel poorly for needing his help. 

The night she died, she was made sure that he knew. It had puzzled her for most of the day, trying to find an action or the right set of words to gently let him know she was leaving him. It came to her as they readied for bed. 

“The kettle is on Mum. I’ll have your tea in shortly.” Andon had swung into her doorway, his long blonde hair combed out for the night. He smiled, and Elsa’s heart broke. 

“I’ll not be needing my tea tonight dear. But thank you anyways—and thank you for everything.” Tears slipped down her face without her realizing, as she watched Andon’s smile fall. He walked to her bed wordlessly, and hugged her tightly. She placed a kiss on his forehead, just as she had when she would tuck him into bed as a child, then turned to lie down. She was almost eager for it, in a way. She hated to leave her son, but she was so old and so tired—and while no one knew what happened to men and women after death, she wondered if she might not meet her husband and her first son again. 

“I love you Mum.” Andon murmured, as he settled into the chair by her bed, just as he did on the nights when she was feeling ill or particularly tired. He never stayed the whole night (she never let him, and always woke up in the middle of the night to be sure he had gone to bed as well) but now she realized she would not be able to wake up to remind him to sleep. 

“I love you too dear.” Tears fell faster down her face, that same mixture from the night he had been brought to them—a mixture of joy and sadness in the face of death. 

* * *

Andon handled it all much better than he had his father’s death (a fact it seemed the citizens of Laketown were determined he always be aware of) and had managed to stay for the whole burial, despite wanting to run as he had at his father’s funeral. He wept, and it was as his mother and so many others had told him—seemingly all-encompassing pain that he feared might never pass. But as with the loss of his father, it did fade. 

He left Laketown nonetheless. Staying at the house was too much for him. He gave it to Bard’s family to take care of, and eventually give away to anyone in need of a home who could not afford one. He reassured those who asked after his plans that he would return from time to time—if only to visit his family’s graves and to check up on his remaining friends. 

Mirkwood was where he ended up for a time, though it did not quite fit as a home. He was a bit too brash and un-elf-like for some of Thranduil’s people; but the royal family welcomed him with open arms. When he decided to leave, they did not hold him back. 

He traveled as far as he could then, never really settling anywhere, just visiting places for a time. In Bree and the Shire there would be occasional mentions of a rather strange but kind elf, who sang the songs of the elves and spoke of the lands beyond the Misty Mountains. 

Andon sailed with the last of the elves, after visiting his family’s graves one last time. He reassured his mother he had not been alone all that time, that he had made friends. He thanked his mother and father both for all they had done for him, and found himself saying good-bye to them yet again. He knew this was truly the last he would see of them, even if it was only their gravestones. 

He did not go to Mirkwood, now cleansed and beautiful again. He had faith he would see the elves he called a part of his family in Valinor. Instead he traveled for the Grey Havens, bidding Middle-earth, the only world he had ever truly known, good-bye for one last time. He was almost afraid to leave, but he knew his mother and father would have told him to. His mother would have told him to go where there were others he could spend his life with, and his father would have echoed that sentiment. They were gone from the world and could not see it, but he would make them happy and proud nonetheless; he would find joy and peace from their loss across the sea, as they would have wished.


End file.
